


Flash

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fic, M/M, Multi, White Collar OT3 (Elizabeth/Peter/Neal)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You look predatory," says Neal, studying the display on the back of the camera. The corner of his mouth curls, and he looks up to meet Peter's eye. "Want something?"</p><p>Schmoopy Peter/Neal PWP in the context of Neal/Peter/Elizabeth</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flash

Peter isn't really aware of how Elizabeth affects their moods or their behaviour until she goes away for business for a couple of days, leaving him and Neal on their own for the first time since they started doing this. "Doing this" is as close as he can come to putting it into words, though if El were here, he'd probably make more of an effort.

Neal has just bought a camera—his first in five years, not counting the one in his cellphone—and it's small but complicated-looking. He's on the couch surrounded by bits of cardboard and plastic, and the thick instruction booklet. When Peter moves the recharger to the coffee table and sits next to him, he sees Neal's reading the instructions in German. "Doesn't it have an English section?"

"Oh, yeah," says Neal, sounding faintly surprised, and flicks to an earlier page with the same layout and diagram, and continues reading as if it makes no difference.

Peter leans away a little, back against the couch, and watches him—not like he used to when they were just working together, when Peter spent half his life searching for signs of deception or discontent, for any of Neal's tells that he was pulling a fast one. No, this watching is indulgent and speculative in an entirely different way. He stares at Neal's hands and remembers the feel of them dragging across his skin, eloquent and needy. He catalogues the angle of Neal's neck, the curve of his ear, his wrists. He knows the taste of Neal's skin, and his mouth waters a little at the thought that he could lean over now—interrupt Neal's photographic research—and lick him. Push him back and slither to the floor and blow him. Come in his hand or against his belly or—if he asks right and Neal feels like it, because he doesn't always—in his ass. In his mouth. Bite him or mark him, or hold him down until he's turned on and begging. The mental pictures are vivid and compelling, and Peter can't ignore his response. He's about to say something, do something, when there's a click and a flash of white light.

"You look predatory," says Neal, studying the display on the back of the camera. The corner of his mouth curls, and he looks up to meet Peter's eye. "Want something?"

It's a challenge, and they don't do challenges, not when El's here. It's not that she's soft or needs protecting—because Christ knows she can be as demanding and pushy and sexually adventurous as the next guy—but, Peter thinks now, it's more that she mediates the space between him and Neal somehow, balances out their dynamic. Her presence is a sign that they're not at work, they don't need to keep up the appearance of Peter in charge. She gives them certainty, a space to be playful.

Without her here, Peter's desire feels illicit, unauthorized. What if he's taking advantage? What if he has been all along, and El's presence has blinded him to that? It's a disquieting thought. "If you could be anywhere right now—"

Neal's lashes sweep down, hiding his eyes for a moment, and Peter quells his panic and waits for him to conduct his internal audit. Neal's been practising this—answering fully and truthfully instead of falling back on glib responses or saying what he thinks they want to hear. Elizabeth's been coaching him—sometimes late at night, sometimes over brunch or when they're walking Satchmo—and Neal seems to enjoy it, to see it as a skill to be mastered.

"Dordogne," he says, after a long moment. "It's gorgeous this time of year."

Peter's heart plummets. He'd hoped Neal would say _here, with you._ That he was really, truly happy.

"I know a castle we could rent," continues Neal dreamily. "Elizabeth would love it. You'd enjoy it too, until you got hives from being away from the office." He elbows Peter in the ribs, and Peter breathes again. It was the _with you_ part that was important, after all.

"Maybe one day," says Peter. "We could go there to celebrate when your tracker comes off."

"I'd like that," says Neal. "Kind of a honeymoon." He says it casually, and it takes Peter's breath away: Neal taking them for granted, taking liberties. It's reassuring and wonderful and so typical that Peter almost laughs.

"Yeah," he says. "A honeymoon." _Marry us._ He wants to call El and share the moment, but she's busy working. Besides, she'd only laugh at him. "Do you want a ring, too?"

Neal grins, taken off-guard. "Maybe. I'll have to think about it." He puts the camera aside and leans against Peter, warm and angular, his back against Peter's chest.

Peter holds him tight, pulling him closer. "Caught you."

"That joke's getting stale." Neal draws a complicated pattern on Peter's knee, tickling him and turning him on at the same time. "Are you sure you're not feeling predatory?"

Peter can't see his face, but he can hear the provocation clearly enough. "I am, actually. I was watching you and feeling very—" He hesitates, but the word's already on his tongue. "—possessive." As he says it, he slowly, deliberately starts to unbutton Neal's shirt.

Neal gives a pleased sigh, apparently not at all bothered by Peter's terminology. "Oh good." His hand slides up the inside of Peter's thigh, and Peter's only got two or three buttons undone but Christ, that'll have to be enough. He can't wait.

"What do you want?" He's already pushing Neal sideways, down onto his back, and covering him with his body, touching him.

"I don't know." Neal rubs up against him, his hips hitching, cock getting hard. "I don't care. I want to come. I want you to—" He shakes his head. "Anything." He cranes his head up and kisses Peter, dirty and thorough, making Peter groan. "You belong to me," he says, and Peter doesn't argue.

It's true. He knows it and he wants it. "Yes."

He thrusts against Neal, and this is crazy, they're both fully dressed and there's a comfortable bed just upstairs and what are they, teenagers? But Peter can't stop and Neal is urging him on, desperate, almost tearing at Peter's shirt. "God, just—yes. Yeah."

Despite the scrunched up fabric and the limitations of the couch, they find a rhythm. Neal shoves his hand down the back of Peter's pants and clutches his ass, and Peter braces against the arm and the back of the couch and drives down, over and over. It shouldn't feel as good as it does, but this is Neal, his Neal, who makes him crazy, who does things he shouldn't and wants things he shouldn't, but who wants _him_, and fuck, that's a miracle Peter's not going to question anymore.

Neal's eyes are closed, his forehead creased, mouth open, gasping out curses and Peter's name, and the cords of his neck stand out as he twists his head. Sweat beads his upper lip, and Peter bends to lick it, to take Neal's mouth. The pressure inside of him is hard, bright, his cock aches, and Neal is moving under him, his hands everywhere, desperate and relentless, his leg hooked around Peter's to keep him close.

The couch creaks in time with their thrusts, and Peter's shirt is stuck to his back, and he doesn't care about any of that. He just wants to give Neal his body, for them to use each other honestly.

Neal slings an arm above his head and grabs the arm of the couch too, hauling himself up a little, and that must give him more leverage or something, because his hips twist in a whole new motion that drives Peter out of his mind. It would be better without their damned pants in the way, at the very least, and Peter vaguely means to do something about that, he does, but it's too late. Neal flings his head back, shudders, cries out hoarsely, and that sets Peter off, sharpens the need into inevitability, and he's awash with pleasure, coming, shaking, in his clothes, on his couch, with Neal.

That last one is all that matters. He kisses Neal's neck, and rolls off him, enough so he can catch his breath at least, and then they both slide to the floor and sit propped against the couch, shoulder to shoulder, panting and dishevelled.

Neal leans his head back and grins at the ceiling. "Smooth."

"Hey, you jumped me," says Peter. "I know how to show a guy a good time. I just—you _ambushed_ me." He slings his arm along the couch behind Neal and combs his fingers through his hair, feeling warm and heavy and content.

"Yeah?" Neal puts on a show of reviewing events. "I don't remember any ambushing."

"You were sitting on the couch looking all—" Peter nuzzles Neal's hair. "—gorgeous and fuckable. What was I supposed to do?"

Neal turns his head to give him a long lazy satisfied kiss. "Exactly what you did," he says. "Exactly. Just—" He breaks off and turns to dig his new camera out from where it's wedged behind the couch cushions. He checks it for damage, and the next thing Peter knows, there's another click-and-flash. Neal checks the display and laughs at whatever he sees. Peter's pretty sure it isn't flattering, but that's okay—Neal's eyes are warm anyway. "Maybe next time without the clothes," says Neal, completing his thought.

"Whatever you want," says Peter, and bumps his knee against Neal's, using it as a distraction to steal the camera, and take shot after shot of Neal, his Neal, El's Neal, right where he belongs.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> [Wihluta made fanart for this.](http://wihluta.livejournal.com/331623.html) \o/


End file.
